


To Catch a Thief

by skeletonsmama



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fortune Telling, Just My Luck AU, Kissing, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2018-01-01 19:07:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1047522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonsmama/pseuds/skeletonsmama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has the best luck in the world; until he doesn’t. Now he has to find the mystery man he kissed on New Year’s Eve in order to switch their lucks back.<br/>A Just My Luck AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Catch a Thief

_"It takes a thief to catch a thief” - Proverb_

Enjolras had many nicknames over the years. Rabbit’s Foot, Angry Clover, Blondie. Thief was the most recent, but no less infuriating.

"You steal all our luck, Enjolras. Here you walk among us luckless mortals, oh hail, oh hail--," Enjolras cut Courfeyrac off with a good-natured shove. Enjolras wasn't lucky; he didn't believe in luck, really. He believed in opportune things happening at opportune times.

"Also known as _luck."_ Courfeyrac enjoys reminding him every time the topic crops up.

"It's not _luck!_ " Enjolras keeps up his act of indignity, but secretly agrees. His life isn't exactly one of opulence, but there's no denying he's well off. He had a comfortable position in a law firm, and lately his boss had been hinting at a promotion. The rent on his apartment had only gone up marginally since the beginning of his tenancy two years ago and he hasn't had to go without food or heating since college. Most of all, though, it was the little things that kept nagging at his mind. Good weather, lucky pennies, taxis practically the moment he whistled. (For the last one in particular his friends liked dragging him out for Friday and Saturday nights; Enjolras had well and truly begun to resent being used as a cab magnet by the end of college.)

Courfeyrac and Combeferre were over. Combeferre was trying to convince him to come out with them tonight. It was New Year’s Eve and it had been, in Courfeyrac's mind, _months_ since they'd last gone out together.

Courfeyrac obviously trusted Combeferre with that step completely, as he was laying out clothes on Enjolras's bed. Combeferre was dutifully blocking Enjolras's view of the room, but the moment he spied the garish red skinny jeans that hadn't seen light in god knows how long he had to intervene.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing now? I can dress myself, Courf. And you, on occasion. Do remember when--."

"We agreed never to speak of that weekend again, remember? Yes. The first thing you find on your floor doesn't count as dressed, you know. Definitely not dressed for a _club_ on _New Year’s_. And most _certainly_ not dressed for a costume party. _"_ Courfeyrac paused long enough to shove an armful of clothes at him, “Now get dressed, snappy snappy!"

***

"C'mon R, it's just one night. You go out every other night, what's wrong with a little New Years spirit?"

"Go away 'Ponine, let me wallow in self pity for tonight. The reason I got out every other night is to avoid this night specifically. Too many people, not enough booze."

Grantaire rolled over to look at Eponine, who was standing with her hands on her hips, lips formed in a pout.

"Don't you dare pull out puppy eyes."

"But R, my girlfriend’s coming out with us tonight. I thought you wanted to meet her. You don't want to disappoint her, right?"

Grantaire groaned, hands going up to scrub his face. Instead he tipped right off the bed, letting out a surprised yelp as he hit the floor. Eponine didn't try to hide her snicker.

"Fine. I'll come out with you, but only to meet your girlfriend. And then you're going to let me get shitfaced and you're not going to make angry tutting noises when I spill my drink on someone attractive because all coordination went out the door 5 shots ago. Good?"

"Good. Now go shower, you smell like a fucking ashtray."

***

"Enjolras, you understand the point of going out is to, you know, have fun, right?"

Enjolras hadn’t indulged him an answer. He was on his second rum and coke for the evening and already feeling tipsy. Part of the reason he had stopped coming out so often, he'd like to remind Courfeyrac; even after college he never stopped being such a lightweight.

"Enjolras. My dear Enjy. It's nearly midnight and you don't have a pretty boy to dance with and kiss upon the stroke of the New Year. This is a tragedy."

"It really isn't. Really. I'm quite fine--" He didn't manage to finish his sentence as someone tripped, nearly colliding with him, instead hitting their face with a thud on the empty stool next to him. A glass shattered on the floor and the person -- black hair, black t-shirt, black jeans -- groans in pain, standing up to face Enjolras. The t-shirt he was wearing had large white "Z" on it, and a Zorro mask covered his eyes.

"Oh, fuck, I'm so sorry. At least I didn’t spill my drink _on_ you, right? With my luck I’ve learnt not to expect anything different.”

Zorro made eye contact and Courfeyrac seized his chance.

“You can make it up to him by taking him for a dance.”

“I couldn’t—“

“Of course you could!” Courfeyrac shoved Enjolras at Zorro, and he managed to gracefully avoid contact with his chest. Zorro wasn’t so lucky, stumbling backwards in surprise, only remaining upright as Enjolras grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him back up.

“So, now that my friend has forced us together, perhaps you’d be so kind as to give me a dance.” His eyes were rather pretty, through the mask.

The stranger nodded mutely and Enjolras took it as consent, dragging him to the fringe of the dance floor and tentatively resting his hands on the stranger’s hips. What he intended to be nothing more than a quick sway for a song or two morphed into bodies close to bodies, hot and heavy as the beat of the club kept upping in anticipation of the New Year’s Countdown.

He moved a hand to the strangers face at _TEN_ , cupping tentatively. His mouth tilted to the side by _SEVEN_ and their mouths were a breadth apart by _TWO. ONE!_ Was lost in the cheers and shouts of drunken “ _Happy New Year’s”_ as it was lost in their lips as they meet, slip sliding against one another in urgency.

This was when the buzzing in Zorro’s jeans started, an insistent call and Enjolras was unhappy to pull back.

Zorro groaned and pulled the phone out of his jeans, eyes widening as he read the caller ID.

“I’m so sorry I need to take this, just—,” He pulled a sharpie – a _sharpie_ – out of his back pocket and pulled Enjolras’s arm into his grasp, awkwardly writing ten digits across the back of his hand. “Call me. Maybe. If you want. Or wait here, this might not take too long. Um.” Zorro _blushed_ , before his phone went off again and with one last apologetic smile he disappeared through the crowd, in search of somewhere quieter.

Enjolras waited patiently, moving to the edge of the dance floor, when suddenly he’s assaulted with _cold_ and _wet_ and--

“Watch where you’re going, pretty boy, you made me spill my drink.” And then the person was gone, back to the bar presumably for a refill, while Enjolras was covered in--

“Daiquiri. She spilt daiquiri all over. God, do people have no taste anymore?” Courfeyrac appeared out of nowhere just in time to witness the accident.

“I’m just going to…” Enjolras trailed off, considering that the man Courfeyrac had been dancing with had come back and he was no longer paying attention. Enjolras didn’t mind; he’d just go to the bathroom, mop himself up as best he could and then come back and wait for Zorro Stranger. Nothing could go wrong.

Only when he looked down at his arm after exiting the bathroom, 7 numbers had smudged away, leaving only a “636” on the end. Enjolras cursed himself for being so stupid; now Zorro was gone, he’d never find him again amongst the lights and sounds of the club, and he wouldn’t be able to call.

It was the first time he’d found himself so taken by a stranger, only to screw it up completely. Courfeyrac was going to laugh at him and it was going to be unpleasant. He would become a story he shared with friends, _so there was this one time he fell in love with a total stranger and completely lost him! How ridiculous…_

But no, Courfeyrac wouldn’t do that. He was his _friend_ , friends don’t do that to friends. Either way, he was still covered in alcohol despite his best efforts in the bathroom, and he hadn’t even wanted to come out in the first place. After seeking out Combeferre and giving him a quick goodbye, he headed out for a short trip home, making sure to pull the mask off his face before braving the wind.

***

Grantaire practically flew up the stairs to his apartment, tearing off as much of the “costume” Eponine forced him into as he can as he goes. He's not surprised to find Joly, Bossuet and Gavroche on his couch playing Mario Kart rather badly. Gavroche is first by miles, Bossuet struggling to hold second. Joly is driving backwards.

"Has Jehan called you guys yet?" Bossuet grunted as he took a red shell before replying.

"No, why? Is it the reason you're here? I thought Ep was-- NO!"

Gavroche had given up the lead to Bossuet, only to let him be nuked with a blue shell. Gavroche laughed gleefully as he sped past.

"In that case, I have incredible news," Grantaire said. "We got the deal of a century. Jean Valjean Records has just signed The Siberian Sleigh Rides. Guys we have a fucking album deal."

Joly and Bossuet didn't even blink. "With luck like yours? Nice prank, but you're a few months early."

"I'm serious guys. Jehan'll ring any second--"

Joly's ringtone interrupted Grantaire before he could finish, Jehan's picture flashing on screen. Grantaire grinned, his first genuine one in a long while.

***

Enjolras was soaked to the bone, shirt sticking to his skin. It had started raining on his walk home, before continuing with a mixture of sleet, hail and snow. There had been no taxi’s when he’d gone to hail one, which was understandable granted the time.

A hailstone the size of a king marble had hit him on the head before he'd taken up shelter, so he was left with a throbbing headache and lump on his skull. All he wanted to do now was get home, have a nice, hot shower and maybe indulge in a mug of the Belgian hot chocolate Combeferre had gotten him for Christmas. Yes, that's what he'd do.

Except then someone (the rain) threw a most unhelpful spanner in the works.

"Hey! What are you doing in my apartment?"

"You're the owner? Eenjol-- something?"

Enjolras bristled at the mispronunciation, but didn't take the bait. "That's me. Why are people in my apartment?"

He'd fallen asleep on the side of the road and was stuck in a nightmare, a nightmare that's all too realistic as someone in a fluro yellow vest handed him a cardboard box.

"Sorry to tell you kid, but your apartments been flooded. There's been floods springing up everywhere with this weather at the moment. You'd best hold tight and find somewhere else to stay until this rain eases up."

Enjolras wanted to cry, to scream, to curl up into a ball and have Combeferre rub his back until his window of the world didn't feel quite so bleak.

Considering the latter was the only reasonable option, that's exactly what he did.

***

Courfeyrac had party poppers. Enjolras was confused as to why he was allowed to have party poppers, why Combeferre had let him anywhere _near_ party poppers after last year’s incident with the goat and the jet-ski. Not a good New Year’s Eve.

All Enjolras wanted to do really was collapse on their couch and _sleep._ Courfeyrac was insufferable. He was loud and terrible and Enjolras didn’t understand why he was friends with him.

Combeferre was kinder, but only marginally.

“I dragged him away before three am to let you in, you can deal with the consequences. You learn to live with it after long enough. Come on, get some rest, we both have work on Tuesday and it’ll do you no good to be exhausted.”

Enjolras groaned and rolled over to press his face deep into the makeshift bed, preparing for a sleepless night. Or several.

 

***

In a borrowed shirt from Combeferre and pants from Courfeyrac, Enjolras headed to work, a sinking feeling sitting heavily in his stomach. Today wouldn’t be a good day, he just _felt_ it.

  


He arrived at work. Eventually. It only took 2 buses, a bought of underground public transit and a fare evasion fine. The officer hadn’t listened to his reasoning, not his protests or declarations of his lawyerdom. Enjolras was feeling most uninspired.

His boss was not impressed.

“What do you call this? An hour late, no notice, looking like something the cat dragged in. We have a meeting with some very important potential clients later, and I can’t have my supposed star lawyer looking like he doesn’t care for his job. Go change.” She barked. “Now!”

The rest of the morning wasn’t much better. Printer jams, an intern spilling coffee on his new shirt, his clean shirt, his _only_ spare shirt, leading to tears and a borrowed shirt that was too small in the arm and shoulder but ridiculously oversized in the middle. Files were lost, and found, and lost again, a witness had been taken ill and was now unable to make a court date, and to top it all off the bank had noticed suspicious activity in his account and frozen his funds for the foreseeable future.

He barely managed to hold himself together at lunch. The temptation to bolt and go to the bathroom and weep at how _unfair_ the last two days had been was strong, but he doesn’t.

Instead he bothered Combeferre.

“Go away Enjolras. I’m trying to work and my computer keeps glitching with you nearby. Pouting like a petulant child achieves nothing. You should know better; you’ve been friends with Courfeyrac for long enough.”

“I’m not pouting. I’m just…distressed.”

The phone on Combeferre’s desk buzzed and he answered it. “You’re also late for a very important meeting according to—“

“ _Shit._ _”_

He practically ran to the conference room, still trying to maintain the last shards of his dignity, stopping only briefly to grab his laptop.

It would be unfair to say he slams face first into the glass door, but he does, and everyone in the room laughed, save his boss, who looked like she was about to blow a gasket.

“Mr. Enjolras, how nice of you to finally join us. If you could start the presentation now.” Her tone was clipped, deadly and Enjolras wanted to sink through the floor and stop existing a bit.

For the first time in two days things went okay. A projector worked, the presentation loaded, the client’s laughed where they should have and paid attention where they were meant to.

About halfway through the presentation, music started coming from his laptop. Not a good sign, considering this was meant to contain no audio whatsoever. When the notification popped up Enjolras decided that Courfeyrac was never going near his laptop again. _Ever._

On the screen was a window that said “Love Timer” in huge, sparkly pink letters, accompanied by obligatory bad porn music and two silhouetted figures seemingly gyrating against each other.

His boss looked like she was ready to kill him on the spot which, well, would be a shame, considering Enjolras was still quite attached to life. Well, mostly. The absolute mortification he felt in that moment made dying seem like an option.

“Oh shit--,” he winced as the curse slipped out unbidden, “I’m very sorry for this--ah.”

The thing finally shut off, leaving them with a silence that hung over the room uncomfortably. It felt brittle, as if the slightest change would shatter the atmosphere created, from the clients cloudy faces to his boss’s pure rage.

His boss was the first to break it. “Well Mr. Lunde, I’m dreadfully sorry for that...issue. Why don’t I see you out and we can discuss your options. Enjolras, I’d like to see you in my office.”

Enjolras swallowed heavily.

 

He waited in her office, sitting quietly and trying not to touch anything. When she finally came in he felt his heart jump in his throat. He knew he’d fucked up, would probably be fired. Of course he’d be fired, what with the way this day had gone. Fuck, fucking shit.

“Enjolras, I’ve come to a decision. Considering your previously exemplary history with the firm, I’m putting you on unpaid leave for an indefinite amount of time; three weeks or so should suffice. Your cases will be distributed among colleagues. I’ll have someone contact you with further details at the end of the three weeks. Have a nice break, Mr. Enjolras.”

He couldn’t do anything but nod mutely, barely managing to voice his acknowledgment of what had just passed.

 

Combeferre called out as he gathered up his essentials from his desk. He wasn’t sad, wasn’t angry, just indifferent. Numb. The emotions would come later, he decided, but for now this was the best he could do.

“Enjolras, what happened?” Combeferre said after jogging over.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, _I don’t know_. Everything’s been going wrong and I can’t stop it. First my apartment -- plausible. The traffic to work and credit cards -- also plausible, but a shitty coincidence. But _this?”_ Enjolras gestured madly and managed to knock over his desk lamb in the process, shattering the bulb. “It’s _ridiculous_ _._ I’m going home. I might call Cosette later, as long as you’re not too averse to the possibility of me setting your handset on fire, knowing my luck.”

He sighed and headed home, opening an umbrella in a weak attempt to combat the rain.

 

It was pissing down. Enjolras's umbrella was doing more harm than good, flipping inside out every four steps and forcing him to try to right the damaged wires. Several cars drove past in succession as he did so, the puddle gathered in the gutter rising like a wave over him leaving him drenched to the skin. He must have looked something akin to a waterlogged rat when a car pulled over beside him, driver leaning over to open the door.

"There are sayings about rides with strangers, but it's this or the walk back to wherever you live. Come on, I have a working heater.”

The man was young, about his age, and looked genuinely earnest enough that Enjolras trusted his gut and the waterlogged phone in his pocket that this is safe. He got in.

"What's your name, stranger? Also, where are you headed?"

"I could say the same of you. Enjolras, just three blocks up and turn left."

"Call me Grantaire. Good spot, it’s right on my way to work. So what’s a smart, business looking type like you doing in the rain on the pavement?"

Enjolras thought for a moment. “Call it a bad day.”

“Well, it’s certainly _my_ lucky day. Indulge me, Enjolras, what do you do for a living? What are your life values, philosophies, intricacies? Favourite genre of music? Oh, we’re here.”

Grantaire cut himself off mid rant and Enjolras found he wanted him to finish the slew of questions, and to shoot them right back at Grantaire in return. There was a quality to the man that was mesmerising, even if it was just being amplified by the fact he’d been kind enough to pick up a stranger and drive them home.

“Which one’s yours? Or I can drop you here, but it’s still pretty wet out there.”

“The one just ahead, with the yellow fence. Thanks for the lift, Grantaire.”

“My pleasure, Enjolras. But, look, riddle me this Batman, just one question. Think of it as payment for my, oh so selfless lift. Is there any such thing as a truly selfless good deed?”

Enjolras frowned. “Of course there is. You just did one, didn’t you, picking up someone in the rain and driving them home. I fail to see what benefit you gain from this?”

“Oh, I gain the pleasure of your face and your company. What I’m saying here, is that there’s no such thing as a truly selfless good deed. Think on it, and maybe if we meet again you can tell me your answer again, this time with more thought.”

Enjolras frowned harder, his vehement disagreement with the man across from him spelled out across his face.

“I’ll think on it, then. I think you’re wrong, but everyone is entitled to their own opinion. Unless it’s outright offensive or hateful.”

“Spoken like a true idealist! Bye bye Enjolras, it was wonderful meeting you.”

Enjolras shivered in the cold as the car pulled away.

“Yeah, you too,” he mumbled at the retreating rear lights.

 

***

“Leo, hey, wait up--” Grantaire ran to catch up with his boss, only wheezing a little when he got there. “Here’s my notice. My band got signed, so…”

Leo gave him a grin. “I’m happy for you, kid. Don’t worry about your notice, we had someone come in today looking for a job. I’ll just give ‘em a ring.” He clapped Grantaire on the back and Grantaire grinned at him. He’d had the job cleaning and bussing tables for nearly two years now, and in that time had broken more plates, and cups, blown more light bulbs and flooded more toilets than he cared to admit. It was almost sad, actually, to be leaving his longest stint ever. But he _was_ about to record an album. That fact outweighed any strong sentimentality to the place.

“It was good to see you Leo. Say goodbye to Michelle for me, yeah?”

“No problem Grantaire.”

He walked out with a spring in his step, swiftly snatching up the $10 note he spied lying on the ground. Everything was going _right_ for once.

***

It was sheer desperation that made him pick up the landline. Because, in one instance, his mobile was non-functional and he had no money for a repair job (he may have dropped it in frustration at some point in the recent past. And thrown it at a wall. No matter). And, in another instance, he's half terrified he'd break the thing before he dialled the number.

Seemingly nothing went wrong as he input Cosette's number. It connected in just a few rings, her answer understandably confused by the caller ID.

"Hello, who is this?"

"It's...it's Enjolras. I just...everythings gone so _wrong_ and I don't know what to do. I'm calling from Courfeyrac's home phone because mine is in pieces, my accounts have been frozen because of suspicious activity, kicked out of my apartment due to flooding, suspended from work, I can't _do_ this, Cosette, I can't."

"Woah, Enjolras, slow down. You mean you’ve lost your lucky rabbits foot?” Cosette had always been nicer than all his friends. And with lack of other explanation Enjolras just answered, “Yes.”

There was a voice in the background, a woman’s, and Cosette shushed her before continuing. “Sorry, Eponine was just...hang on a sec.”

The mouthpiece rustled as she covered it with her hand, discussing something with Eponine --as in _girlfriend_ Eponine? -- in excited tones.

“Okay, I know you don’t exactly believe in this kind of thing, but my girlfriend--,” yes, girlfriend Eponine, “is a fortune teller. She’s really good, too, swear on my life. Why don’t you come by tomorrow considering you don’t have work? Even if nothings achieved, I want you two to meet, finally.”

Enjolras sighed. His options were limited, and so far he could either mope at Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s place or join Cosette. He chose the latter. “What’s the address? I’ll try to be there around 10.” p>

***

What Eponine walked in on as she returned from Cosette’s could probably be considered a bad scene. Not in _that_ sense, but, really, the position he was in wasn’t pretty. Gav had Grantaire’s head over the sink, tap digging into his cheek as he washed the bleach out, effectively turning a stripe down the middle of his hair blonde.

“Please tell me you’re not going blonde. Or leaving it like that. Or that you’ve put Gav in charge of _dying_ your _hair_.”

"Jeez 'Ponine, relax. He knows what he's doing."

"Like hell he does. Do you need a spread to tell what a terrible idea this is, or are you just going through with it anyway?"

Gavroche pulled out a tube of dark green wash-out dye and Grantaire grinned.

"It’s for the punk rock, ‘Ponine, the punk rock!"

Eponine just sighed and went to the living room, trying her hardest to ignore the grunts and random shrieks. The laughter that followed meant Gavroche had probably left the water on cold as satans asshole and doused him. Confirmed when moments later Grantaire came out of the bathroom, shivering and dripping on the carpet.

“Your little brother is a menace.”

“I know. Where do you think he gets it from?” Grantaire smiles at that.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a hair dryer by any chance? I’m deciding I’ll never be letting the _little gremlin_ , ” he raised his voice and Gavroche snickered from the bathroom, “near my hair again.”

“Second drawer under the sink. And Gavroche, come out and finish your homework.”

“But I haven’t--”

“Don’t lie, it’s spread out on the living room floor.”

“Fi-i-i-ine.”

***

Enjolras met Cosette at the front out the front of the building. The building was what appeared to be a mixture of tourist trap souvenir store and an attempt to draw in anyone with a casual interest in the supernatural. Posters depicting fortune tellers were plastered over the front, next to flaking window paint claiming it was "so hot you’d drop".

Enjolras nearly blanched then and there, but then Cosette was greeting him, hand in hand with a dark haired girl who looked like she wanted to be doing anything rather than reading someone’s fortune.

Enjolras couldn't really blame her.

"I spend so much time trying to meet your girlfriend, and you just get her to tell my fortune? God Cosette, I would’ve done this _months_ ago."

She grinned. "This is a happy accident, actually, neither of you are ever free at the same time. Eponine, this is my cousin, Enjolras. Don't mind him, really. Enjolras, this is my girlfriend Eponine." They shook hands, Eponine still looking incredibly bored.

"Is your luck still supposedly missing?" Cosette asked.

"On the way here I missed 3 buses, the novel I was reading got shat on by a bird and I fell face first when the metro stopped suddenly. Which, do you have any painkillers, because my nose is still _aching_ and I've had a headache since I got practically fired yesterday. Hope that answers your question." Cosette smiled sympathetically and dug around in her bag for a panadol. Eponine snorted. 

"Poor little rich boy problems. Come inside, I'll do your reading for a 20."

"But--"

"Pay up, blondie. You’ll want to hear what I know, trust me." Enjolras looked at Cosette for support but she just shrugged and handed over two pills. With great reluctance and a longing gaze, Enjolras parted with his last $20 note and Eponine hurried him through the store to the back.

"Sit your ass down and start shuffling the deck in front of you. I need to go get my seer ball."

"You mean a crystal ball?"

"Just shut up and shuffle those cards, thief."

Enjolras bristled at the nickname. He wasn't a thief; if anything he'd been robbed, luck (and really, there was no way he could deny it now it was gone) stolen and himself left in the dust. Once he got tired of shuffling he set them down waiting for Eponine to return.

His fingers drummed out an anxious beat on his leg, moving over his knee and back up again.

And then he triggered his Knee-Jerk reflex. He could only watch as his leg kicked up and knocked the small table over, Sending the cards, cloth and glitter that had accumulated flying. Eponine came back in as he was coughing from the dust disrupted and she didn’t even try to stifle her laugh. Enjolras returned the favour by not hiding his scowl.

"Upright the table, thief, I'll tell you what you want to know."

Again, Enjolras wondered what he was doing there. He'd never been superstitious, that had been left to Courfeyrac. But now...this wasn't normal. Couldn't be. The entire situation was so monumentally absurd. Yet here he was, picking up tarot cards off of a fortune teller’s floor.

Eponine waited until he was seated to put the clear ball on the table on its stand, looking into it as if it held the mysteries of the universe.

"Which it does." She answered the question he hadn’t asked and he gave her a look of surprise. “Don’t ask, thief, you won’t like the answer I give you. But I can tell you what you’ve been _dying_ to know since New Year’s.”

"Why do you insist on calling me that?"

"Because that’s what you are. It rolls off you in _waves._ And trust me, I know a criminal when I see one. Only...oh. You done any kissing lately? It seems someone stole your luck and that’s how they did it. Hand me the tarot, I’ll have a better look. But at this point, you want your options?"

Enjolras nodded enthusiastically. "You smooch the person, lucks change back and voila. Get your lipstick on blondie, it’s time to pucker up."

“But…how?”

Eponine spread the deck in what she explained was a Celtic Cross and read the cards, gasping as she overturned the final one. She looked up at Enjolras sharply. “You’ve been dealing with ‘Parnasse? You moron.” To reiterate she whacked him on the side of his head. “You don’t go dealing with _Montparnasse_ _._ He’s into old magick. From the looks of things he cursed you, so whatever you’re doing in the next month or so would fail miserably. Does that make sense?”

It made perfect sense, considering Montparnasse of the Patron-Minette was on trial for murder and Enjolras was the defence lawyer. This was bad. This was very, very bad. This was _disastrous_.

He paused for a moment to asses the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. “So he cast a fucking spell like something out of of a goddamn novel? He twirls a little wand and suddenly I’m stuck with whatever happens all because he muttered a few words?”

“It’s not that simple, blondie. But in essence, yes. What, you going to protest the presence of magic after I read your mind? Don’t say it,” she said, cutting off the half formed sentence nearly out of his mouth. “Just deal with it. Okay?”

Enjolras sighed in resignation. There was nothing else to do, really. “And you’re sure that my lucks only been switched or moved? It’s not gone forever?” What a fate that would be to behold.

"To cast my mind back to a high school physics class, luck is never created or destroyed, only transferred."

"That’s energy."

"Sure thing sugarplum, not all of us went to a fancy ass high school like you. It’s the same principle, is the point. Now you know what you wanted to know, so shoo shoo. Before you break something else."

Enjolras left in a hurry after that. Cosette walked in and wrapped an arm around her girlfriends neck, peeking at the spread still on the table.

“You didn’t tell him everything, you bad girl. Lovers in position nine, six of pentacles in position ten. He has no idea what those card mean, you know.”

Eponine stretched up to peck her on the lips. “There are some things he needs to figure out for himself. He’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

 

***

Courfeyrac was pottering around when he got back.

"Don't you have a job?"

"Yes, with Tuesdays off. What happened to give you the mopey look?"

"My cousin’s girlfriend is a fortune teller. I discovered some things..." He explained what Eponine had told him, Courfeyrac nodding and commenting in all the right places. When he finished he stood up, holding out his phone with a flourish.

"You're in luck, my friend. I happen to be former roommates of the owner of the club we went to. Remember Marius?” Courfeyrac didn’t pause long enough for Enjolras to answer. “He, hopefully, has access to the guest list and from there social media abound, we will find your mystery man."

"Courf..." Enjolras began warningly but Courfeyrac cut him off with the wave of a hand.

"Hush my darling Enjy, watch as Papa Courfeyrac takes care of all your troubles. Shh."

“Don’t ever call yourself Papa Courfeyrac in my earshot again. Please.”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac each ended up with an ear each pressed close to the phone, breathing heavily. The dial tone drawled on and Enjolras could almost feel his future slipping away with every ring. Any good luck he'd ever had, poof, gone forever. His hopes, his dreams, down the drain along his boss’s respect.

At least, though, Courfeyrac had stopped ribbing him about not believing in luck. Thank god for small mercies.

"Enjolras, don't get too close; you might be contagious with the anti-luck you don't believe in."

Or not.

Enjolras waited, barely managing to keep himself from cheering as someone picked up the phone.

"Hello, uh, yes, just a minute!"

 _"_ Take your time, Marius."

_"_ _Courf?_ _"_

_"_ Very possibly. Listen, I hate to rush this and as much as I love to chit chat my friend is very much at risk of breaking my phone right now. Can I ask a favour?"

Enjolras nearly pitied the man for how enthusiastically he replied. "Sure! I still owe you for letting me stay with you."

 _"_ Consider this debt paid; not that there was ever any in the first place, but either way. Can I get the patron list from your club on New Year’s Eve?"

"Yes, yes, yes, done and done. I'll get Freya to send you an email now. Freya's my assistant by the way. Um." Marius paused, breathing down the phone and Enjolras finally overbalanced, slipping and knocking his foot on a nearby chair. Courfeyrac just shushed him, still on the phone. "Courf, why exactly do you need a patron list? The clubs not in trouble with the police is it?"

 _"_ No, no, a friend's just....gotten himself into a spot of bad luck." He probably deserved the death glare Enjolras sent him. "Long story short, if he kisses a guy, everything will go back to normal. There's a curse and people and-- like I said, long story."

"O...kay. I'll get Freya to send that email, yes, call again soon! It's great hearing from you."

 _"_ You too Marius, you too."

 

If Marius had been at all disturbed by the phone call he certainly didn't show it, as Courfeyrac received an email with a long lists of names within minutes. Granted, it was with a small personal note asking him not to use it _too_ inappropriately, but that was only to be expected. Marius _had_ lived with Courfeyrac, after all.

Courfeyrac opened facebook, cracking his knuckles and settling back in his seat. Enjolras was almost surprised he didn't bring out a pair of sunglasses.

“So we need to find a mystery man with black hair? Is that’s what we’re going on?”

“He didn’t just have black hair...he was quite stocky? Shorter than me, had these gorgeous eyes…”

“Alright lover-boy, he’s dreamy and perfect. I’m going to start looking up the names on facebook and other various social media websites and you can tell me whether or not it might be him. We’ll cross off anyone who it couldn’t be and from there, well, I’ll tell you later. Comprende?”

Enjolras nodded.

“Well sit your butt down, sunshine, we got some googling to do.”

****

"Hey, hey Enj-- watch out!" Enjolras felt a hand on his collar, jerking him violently backwards. He fell against a warm chest, the owner of which had presumably fallen against the gutter.

"What the--" Enjolras was cut off by the long sound of a bus horn as it drove over the spot he'd been standing a moment ago. There was something familiar about the nervous chuckle his saviour let out and Enjolras twisted only to find himself nearly nose to nose with--

"Grantaire!"

"Lucky I spotted you in time. Jesus, Enjolras, don't scare me like that again."

Enjolras was struck (almost literally) speechless and stuttered through thank you’s as he got up. Only he used far too much force, pushing off Grantaire's chest and stumbling back into oncoming traffic.

It was only Grantaire following him up and a quick hand on his shirt pulling him close to Grantaire's chest that saved him from the second bus that roared past.

Their faces were inches apart and Enjolras took a deep breath, before Grantaire stepped back.

Which is when he registered a distinct difference.

“What on earth did you do to your hair?”

“Nice to see you too, thanks for saving me from being hit by a _bus._ And I dyed it, what do you think I did?” The centre of Grantaire’s hair was spiked up in an imitation of a mohawk, a green stripe amongst black. It looked good on him, but not that Enjolras would ever say anything.

“I didn’t realise. Look, I’d love to stay and chat--”

“No you wouldn’t,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras could’t begrudge him that. 

“Okay, maybe I wouldn’t but thank you for saving me from your face. I mean the bus. Fuck.”

Grantaire laughed. “Thank Freud for that. Off you go then, away from me and my face. And use the crossing!” Grantaire called at him as he nearly stepped into oncoming traffic for the third time in as many minutes.

 

***

A wedding, a funeral, two birthday parties and a rock concert. A list of events Enjolras had been forced (by Courfeyrac, by Combeferre, by a desperate and near-tears Cosette at one point) to interrupt and most likely ruin in the name of his stupid “Thief Hunt”, as coined by Courfeyrac.

Enjolras was going to kill Courfeyrac. No, he was actually going to do it, slowly, painfully, whilst throwing used scratchies over his lifeless body. (The scratchies were the test, _to test your luck levels_ he’d said.)

He’d kissed more men in the past five days than he could remember kissing in his entire life. All with black hair, but usually even before their lips met and the scratchie gave him a loss yet again he could tell it wasn’t the Zorro.

The eyes were never right.

Here he was; a helpless, luckless, hapless and penniless fool, kicking gravel down a deserted footpath.

Not to mention he was hungry enough to eat a metaphorical horse.

There was a cafe on his left. He may as well go in. Plenty of seats, smelt like an average coffee shop, surely nothing could go wrong?

(Things could go wrong.)

To start with, he walked into a street post as he passed the store. He could’ve sworn he’d never been so clumsy in his _life_. Now, humiliated and slightly sore in the nose (still tender from his incident on the metro), he walked in and got all of five steps when he remembered he had no money left, whatsoever.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been selflessly providing the scratchies, so far.

He was about to walk out and try not to cry, maybe find a payphone and a few coins and call Combeferre to pick him up because this just _wasn’t working_ when a semi-familiar voice called him over.

“Enjolras? Enjolras, over here!” He looked helplessly over to the source of the voice, spotting Grantaire at a table a few feet away.

Enjolras shouldn’t sit, didn’t want to, was not allowed to like the man across the room for him because he was too busy kissing other men for luck; but luck be damned. So he walked over, intoxicated by the curve of his lip and the way he quirked his eyebrow at him.

“Fancy seeing you again? Twice in a week? Count my lucky stars.”

“Lucky? Hardly.”

“Come now Enjolras, I’ll shout you a drink. Sit down, I’ve been craving a scintillating conversation. I never got your revised thoughts on the selflessness question.”

“I don’t understand why you there’s anything interesting to be found here,” Enjolras mumbled, but sat down all the same. A drink was a drink, after all. "Also, my friend informed me that that's actually an episode of Friends."

Despite his words they spoke easily, jumping from topic to topic while going through cups of coffee. Whenever sparks began to fly Grantaire would gently (or abruptly, he seemed to have no preference) steer to a more neutral topic and Enjolras was so happy to have a sane, sensible conversation where luck didn’t get mentioned _once_ that he didn't call him out on it.

Before it felt like any time at all, it was verging on three hours they'd been there. The sky outside had darkened, streetlights casting their sodium yellow glow over rain-slicked streets.

"Come to my place," Grantaire said suddenly after a lull in conversation. Enjolras pointedly didn't choke on his coffee. Or sputter. "Not like that, I mean, I have a washing machine and various other household appliances. Maybe you could wash your clothes, considering they’re still damp and they look kind of…dirty. No offense! I'll make dinner or something. Only if you want to, of course."

Was Grantaire blushing? Grantaire was definitely blushing. That settled it.

"I'd love to. I mean, you have heating, right?"

"Yes, very proudly so. Just let me pay, I'll meet you out the front."

 

Grantaire's apartment wasn't big or impressive or terribly neat, but it was nice and bizarrely homey and that was all that mattered. Grantaire pointed him down a hall, “second door to the right, I'm going to assume you know how to use a washing machine. Grab spare clothes from the white basket, don't touch anything in the blue basket, it’s practically biohazard waste. I'll start on dinner, is curry okay?”

“That would be great, I think.”

Enjolras shut the door behind him quietly and stripped out of his sodden clothes. He grabbed a fresh t-shirt and jeans from the basket, which were comfortable despite the fact they were a little on the big side. He opted to keep his (mostly dry) briefs on, having heard enough of Courfeyrac’s detailed descriptions of commando-gone-wrong to keep him from ever trying it, especially with the week he’d be having.

Grantaire came in to check on him as the washing machine began to make noises like a dying cat.

“Is that normal?”

“Yeah, the washer is pretty old. Hopefully I’ll be able to upgrade soon, though, so maybe you can come around again and try it out. Or not...um, I just came in here to let you know that dinner is almost ready, and Gav should be home soon. Right, you don’t know Gav. Well, look, I can introduce you two when he gets home. But yeah, so if you would rather wait somewhere that isn’t a laundry, the kitchen is warm and smells nice.”

Gav? Who was Gav? Grantaire had never mentioned a Gav before. What if Gav was his boyfriend? It'd be just Enjolras's luck, the first actual person not hidden behind a mask that he wanted to like, wanted to be with, and they're _taken._

He should have left then, to save himself the humiliation. Why would Grantaire be interested in him, really? He was just being nice. Enjolras swallowed down a sense of helplessness and ignored the nausea in his stomach as he walked to the kitchen, following his sense of smell more than anything else. It smelt very, _very_ good.

Waiting at the table was a child who couldn’t have been much older than 13 and a man with a phone glued to his ear. The child was talking animatedly with Grantaire about what sounded like a video game, while the man seemed to be discussing money with someone on the other end of the line. None of them noticed Enjolras as he sat down, until Grantaire turned and started.

“Enjolras! Not lurking in the laundry anymore, I see. Introductions, right, to your left on the phone is Jehan, the best manager-slash-PR guy-slash-crisis counsellor on the planet. To your right is the one, the only, Gavroche. His sister lives in the apartment next door and we all kind of babysit sometimes. All, being me and the rest of The Siberian Sleigh Rides. Which I’m in, as in a band, and Jehan is our manager, _so_ , anyway. Dinner’s almost ready, if _someone_ wanted to grab plates. That’s you Gav, someone is you.”

Dinner was as incredible as it smelt. Enjolras had to restrain himself from moaning after the first bite. Grantaire looked at him appreciatively when he complimented the meal. The conversation flowed easily, bouncing between the four of them with what almost felt like practiced grace.

Soon after the meal was finished Gavroche headed back next door, throwing Enjolras a crooked smile and his wallet.

“Keep it close, blondie, you might lose it one day.”

“Right, ‘lose’ it.”

Jehan gave him just as gracious a goodbye, shaking his hand enthusiastically as he walked out the door.

When it was finally just Grantaire and Enjolras left in the apartment again, Enjolras became hyper-aware of every movement he made in reference to Grantaire.

“I should probably check on my clothes. Do you mind me using your dryer?”

“If it gets you to stay for another 20 minutes, then by all means.”

Enjolras blushed at that and Grantaire grinned. He then used the situation to his advantage. “So, uh, I have rehearsal in a few days with my band and I was wondering if you’d maybe like to come along...as a not-date date. Maybe.”

“A not-date date?” Enjolras said, incredulous.

“A not-date date. I’d really love for you to see us play, and I’m sure Jehan would love to see you again…”

“Jehan. Right.”

“Right.”

“Give me a time and a place, I’ll see you then.” If Enjolras thought Grantaire was beaming before, he was positively radiant then.

***

Enjolras goes home feeling both giddy and full of dread. He’d either have to never see him again, or try to explain the entire god awful situation with the luck and the kissing and fucking Montparnasse. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were waiting up when he arrived, tired and worried.

“Enjolras, are you alright? We were worried you’d been hit by a bus or something equally as fatal.”

“I’m fine Courf, I’m fine. Mostly. Remember Grantaire, the guy who gave me a lift home the other day?” He didn’t go into explicit detail about anything, not wanting to let Courfeyrac see a bone run with it, but he did say enough for him to get a worrying glint in his eye.

“I just want things to be normal again. I want to go out with him and have fun and not have to be constantly thinking about whether I’m going to trip over my own feet and fall flat on my face. I want to stop kissing people who don’t want it, _I_ don’t want it, especially when the scratchies never change,” Enjolras lamented, burying his face in his hands. “He’s invited me to see his band practice. As a date. He asked me out on a date and I said yes.”

Combeferre smiled and Courfeyrac whooped and Enjolras absolutely couldn’t understand his friends reaction to this. Couldn’t they tell it would be a _disaster_ _?_

“It’s good you’re taking the chance, Enjolras,” Combeferre said. “Just give it a go. And don’t act like something bad must absolutely happen, you’ll jinx it.”

***

The Siberian Sleigh Rides are good. The Siberian Sleigh Rides are very good, and Enjolras finds himself smiling along with Jehan as they watch them practice from the control room.

Grantaire had introduced Enjolras to each of his bandmates briefly, putting a name to face an an instrument but not much else. Bahorel on drums, Joly on lead guitar, Bossuet on rhythm guitar and vocals.

Grantaire came out, flushed and smiling and hefting his bass guitar over his head. He gave it to one of his band mates, and Enjolras froze in surprise as he hugged him, torsos hot against each other.

“I’m so glad you could make it, I mean, we just finished rehearsing for our first show, our first _concert_ under Jean Valjean Records, and we’re going to start recording soon, it’s just been such an _incredible_ week.”

And Grantaire’s face is very close, very much in his space and all Enjolras can think about in that moment is how much he wants to lean down and kiss him, to have a semi-meaningful kiss with someone for the first time in days, someone who wanted to kiss him, someone who--

“Can I kiss you?” He asks quietly, and Enjolras didn’t notice everyone else in the room politely averting their eyes as Grantaire stretched up to press their lips together.

It was messy but chaste, noses bumping awkwardly as tentative fingers tangled in hair. Still, it was easily the best kiss of Enjolras’s life, like fireworks, mini explosions went off at every point of contact, lips faces hands chest.

Enjolras finally pulled back for air, dizzy with emotion and something fluttering in his stomach that he couldn't quite explain.

Which is when the power cut out.

***

Grantaire watched Enjolras’s figure disappear, silhouetted against the dusk of outside. He’d pressed a laminated pass into his hand before he went, with dumb hope that maybe he’d come see him before the gig tomorrow. He’d looked funny after they kissed, though that could easily have been the shadows of the room playing havoc on his features.

Grantaire turned to go back inside and catch up with Jehan, to sort final details for transport and things, when a door opened and he ran into it face first.

“ _Fuck_ _,_ _”_ he muttered, and gave the person who’d opened it a curt nod and tight smile to appease their confused features.

When he got back to the control room only Joly and Bossuet were still there, arguing companionably about the merits of lead versus rhythm guitar.

“Hey guys, have you seen--” he was cut off by a loud twanging, the heartbreaking sound of guitar strings snapping. Joly looked down at the fender still slung around his back and could nearly have cried.

Grantaire felt his face crumple inwards, desperately willing it not to be happening. This couldn’t be happening, _couldn’t,_ not after he’d had such a great lucky break.

He was doomed, doomed to an eternity of bad luck. He fucking knew it.

***

A taxi pulls up outside the studio as Enjolras walks out. He’s surprised, to say the least, but won’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth any time soon. Combeferre had sighed and lent him some cash to get him through the day as he’d left, which Enjolras was more than thankful for now.

As he gets in his phone buzzed from his pocket, and he quickly listed off an address before answering.

“Hello?”

“Enjolras, look, I understand I suspended you, but we need you on the Montparnasse case. You’re the best lawyer we’ve got, and we won’t be able to win without your help. Come in on Monday and be sensible about it, and we’ll forget last week ever happened, yes?”

“I...sure thing, boss. I won’t let you down.”

“Good, I’ll be seeing you then.”

Enjolras tries not to let the praise go to his head. This turn of events was bizarre enough, and he couldn’t see it lasting.

Except for when he saw the $50 note lying on the ground of Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s deserted street. He rushed in, face bright and hopeful.

“Courfeyrac, do you any scratchies around?”

“There’s a pile on the table Enjolras, why--”

He shushed him, grabbing one off the top of the pile. His friends gathered to watch him with bated breath as he scratched off three matching numbers for the first time all week.

“Shit Enjolras, who did you kiss?”

“I…” He hadn’t thought about that, hadn’t thought about the implications of his luck coming back. Fuck. “Grantaire. I kissed Grantaire.”

There’s silence for a long moment, before Combeferre, always the voice of reason, speaks up. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“I understand perfectly what it means, thanks, I’m not a complete idiot. Sorry for not being so forthcoming as I contemplate never kissing--” touching, holding, brushing fingertips over fingertips, “--Grantaire again.”

“No need to be snarky, I’m just trying to help. At least until the trial is over, you can’t. After that the state of your luck shouldn’t matter this way or that. That’s why Montparnasse has cursed you, yes?”

The more Enjolras thought about it, the more it could make sense. It wasn’t as if Grantaire desperately needed the luck, was it? He’d been doing okay until New Years Eve without it. He could manage a little while longer. This trial was important, his job, his _life_ was important. He’d be fine. At least, that’s what Enjolras hoped.

***

Grantaire is not nervous or pacing or running his fingers anxiously along his friends skin. Of course not. He’s clutching his phone in his hands tightly, a number typed up but not dialed. It’s Enjolras’s, acquired from a helpful friend of his that had appeared at the door when he’d gone by earlier.

Bahorel is sitting on a couch, looking at him boredly. “Just do it, R. If Eponine was here she’d have kicked your ass by now.”

“Yeah? And why haven’t you?”

“Too lazy, man.”

Grantaire felt marginally better, so he pressed the little green call button and brought the phone up to his ear.

“Hello, is this--”

“Grantaire, it’s Grantaire. I was just wondering if, um, you were coming to the gig tonight? It’d be great to see you here, especially with how _ba--”_ he cut himself off. “Nevermind. I was just wondering.”

“I...I’ll try my hardest to be there, I promise. Good luck for the show, whether I make it or not. Break a leg?”

“Yeah, break a leg…” Probably literally, with the way his luck had done a complete 180. “I’ll hopefully see you soon then?”

“Yeah, hopefully.”

Then there was dialtone and Grantaire felt a little bit sick. What he needed to do now was have a drink, relax, and lose himself in the music enough to block out everything else around him.

  


He could hear a crowd outside, an actual crowd, cheering for their band. He was punch-drunk (and a bit actually drunk) on the lights and the sounds, and from the expressions on the others faces, they were too. Or at least, nearly. Joly looked so nervous he might throw up, but Bahorel was definitely with him, grinning all the way.

Bossuet wasn’t there. Bossuet was _missing_ and the moment Jehan realised this fact he looked ready to have an aneurysm.

“Where’s Bossuet? Who was the last person to see Bossuet? Can someone please let me know where our lead vocalist is, thanks, that would be great!” Grantaire had never known Jehan’s voice to get so shrill, even after years of being friends.

Jehan sent each of them off searching, with strict instructions to be back at least 5 minutes before they were due to be on stage. Grantaire tried to look, he really did, but he’d not even made it five steps before he tripped over a coiled lead and managed to put his hand through one of Bahorel’s spare tom drums he kept backstage in case of Grantaire related emergencies.

This had been an unfortunately frequent occurrence. Grantaire could only groan and pull his hand free, oblivious to the commotion that was a blond man brandishing a VIP pass trying to get backstage.

“It’s urgent, I swear. Look, I have a pass and everything, just let me through, please.” The security guard kept his ground, until Jehan walked past and spotted Enjolras.

“You’re here, you’re here, oh, come in quickly, we’re trying to find Bossuet, wherever he managed to get to.” Jehan dragged him in and Enjolras shook him off immediately in favour of setting upon Grantaire. He grabbed the man by his shirt and hauled him up, pressing their lips together fiercely in what was less of a kiss and more of a desperate smashing of mouths. Enjolras didn’t mind, and he sure hoped Grantaire wouldn’t.

When he pulled back Grantaire stared at him with dazed eyes for a moment, and Enjolras gently released his shirt.

“I realised something, before. You deserve this more than I do, you always have. I’m sorry it took me so long to see it. Goodbye, Grantaire.”

And then he was gone, taking off towards the exit. The entire effect was ruined greatly as he fell over some stacked sound equipment, but he still didn’t look back.

The cheering suddenly redoubled in volume, and a frantic Jehan waved Grantaire towards the stage, where Joly and Bahorel were already rushing on. Bossuet had seemingly magically appeared at his microphone, stage hand rushing on to hand him a guitar.

Grantaire rushed on behind them, pulling his phone out to send one surreptitious text before he began to play.

**_Grantaire:_ ** _hey gav, wuld u mind follwin enjolras 4 me?? just left from door at stage right, txt me to let me kno where he goes thx heaps stay out of trouble_ _!!_

***

Enjolras ran away from there, ran like he never had before. He ran until his legs were hurting and his lungs were burning and, really, he didn't get very far.

 _Christ,_ he was unfit.

He stopped to breathe, sucking in huge lungful’s of air and probably sounding akin to a dying whale.

That was when the hand found the back of his neck. He hadn't heard anyone approach, nor felt anyone behind him, but then there was a hurting grip there, dragging him into the cover of a nearby alleyway.

It was dark, he was alone, and when moonlight glinted off of a blade in his peripheral vision, Enjolras was willing to admit he was scared.

"Don't run, don't scream, etcetera etcetera. Of course I might kill you anyway, but then again, I like this coat and these shoes and blood is _incredibly_ hard to get out." He had a soft melodious voice, a familiar one. It took Enjolras a moment to place, having only heard it through his laptop’s tinny speakers as he watched dated police interviews.

"Montparnasse,” Enjolras gasped out, trying to squirm out of his iron grip before freezing under the bite of cold steel at his neck.

"And you, lucky boy, you fucked up my plans." Enjolras heard sirens in the distance. "Which means you are in a lot of trouble right now, mmm? I don't want to go to jail, you want to keep your life happy-go-fucking-lucky, we can all be winners here."

Enjolras could've sworn the sirens were getting closer.

Montparnasse continued. "So here's how things are gonna go. You find Grantaire and you kiss him once, mouth to mouth, then you piss off and never see him again. Bad luck for you, freedom for me. Understand? Once the trial’s over your life should return to semi-regularity. Or it won’t. I can’t be bothered remembering the desired endpoint of the spell."

And then Montparnasse's cover of dark was blown, headlights of police cars casting light on the pair of them.

"Drop the weapon and step away with your hands up."

Montparnasse looked murderous, but he was smarter than that, smarter than to do that in front of so many credible witnesses.

That didn’t stop him from crying out a slew of expletives as he was slammed against the hood of a car and handcuffed, mixing Latin and English in a lovely curse.

Enjolras gave a statement to the police in a daze, and nodded numbly when they said he'd have to come back for further questioning.

On one hand they had more than enough evidence to prosecute Montparnasse with a count of attempted murder, minimum. On the other, he could no longer work on the case, considering he was a witness and all.

He needed to call Combeferre or Courfeyrac, to come pick him up. The police officers were finishing, ushering him out of the alley and to the street. He was about to ask around for a phone when someone sat down next to him, wrecking of sweat and adrenaline, the top of their green hair silhouetted against the street lights.

"You know, when I asked Gavroche to follow you, I didn't realise he'd end up saving your life."

Enjolras leaned a tired head on his shoulder. "Is this alright?”

Grantaire gave a noise of assent and Enjolras moved in even closer.

“I just need to check one last thing; were you at Masquerade on New Year’s, the costume party? Zorro outfit, spilt your drink near a man and his friend, then you danced."

Grantaire turned, confused. “How did you know that? You weren’t--”

"I was. I would’ve called but someone spilt strawberry daiquiri on me and your number washed away. That wasn’t all that happened that night, um.” Enjolras paused to gather his thoughts and think of a way to explain it without sounding like something out of a Harry Potter book. “Well, you stole my luck. Which apparently _I_ was stealing, according to this fortune teller I saw. We kissed, Montparnasse’s curse came into effect-- "

“You were dealing with _Montparnasse?!”_

“Why does everyone _say_ that? Are you friends with Eponine?” Grantaire snorted. “Who do you think is Gav’s sister? Anyway, go on.” Realisation dawned on Enjolras, and he had to stop again to find his train of thought. “Right, well besides, I’m not ‘dealing’ with him, I’m working on the case against him. He’s supposed to go to prison for murder in two weeks, and I was trying to put him there.”

Grantaire didn't say anything for a long moment, processing the information.

"I'm glad I have an explanation now, actually. Things were too good to be true for a while. Is it seriously like that for you all the time?"

"Not anymore. I gave it back to you, backstage, and I want you to keep it. So I can't kiss you ag--"

Grantaire shuts him up with a kiss, hard and quick. Enjolras matched with one of his own. They continued swapping kisses for a few minutes, until someone nearby cleared their throat.

"Can I go now, R? I don't wanna watch you two make out all evening," Gavroche said, swinging down from his perch on the side of a building. An idea dawned on Grantaire.

"Gav, just come over here for a sec." He shared a look with Enjolras, who seemed confused but was more than willing to follow Grantaire's lead.

"C'mon you little ruffian." While pulling him into a hug, Grantaire placed a kiss on the top of his hair, ruffling it for good measure. When Enjolras still sat frozen Grantaire jerked his head in Gav’s general direction and he finally got the hint. He surged up to kiss his cheek and Gavroche twisted away, making a face.

"Don't ever do that again. Ever." And then he was gone, navigating the streets back home.

Enjolras looked at Grantaire. "Do you think it worked? Wait, I can check," and pulled two scratchies from his pocket. "Scratch this."

Neither of them won, and Enjolras nearly whooped with joy. Instead he leant forward to capture Grantaire's lips, smirking against them.

"Let’s go back to my place." Grantaire said, breathless and wide-eyed, his pupils blown.

"Sounds like a plan."

And sure, things would be anything but normal for a while, with all the completely _ridiculous_ things that had happened in the recent past. But Grantaire had a hand in Enjolras’s back pocket and his lips against his neck and with that, what could go wrong?


End file.
